How does one find inspiration?
The kind that drives singers to write epic ballads,
That tortures musicians in the dark hours of the night to compose symphonies,
The kind that causes writers to pen the stories that shape our childhood,
The ones that continue to echo throughout the ages, long after we are gone.
Is it a madness that drives us?
An all-consuming desire,
That once it takes hold, devours us with its fires,
The flame that burns, even when the rain is all we can feel on our skin,
The coals that sear, even when the cold of humanity has pierced deep within our souls.
What is inspiration but a tool of sadness?
That the world mistakes for wisdom,
Is it but a solace for the wanderers,
Travelling on an old and well-trodden path, leaving behind,
A piece of their mind,
That they may be remembered,
When the world has forgotten…
Photography by Supernova
Sleeping Geeks 